


How you love me

by lazyboo



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10643085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyboo/pseuds/lazyboo
Summary: Jane Austen inspired modern AU.  Nurse Delia meets surgeon Patsy at work.   A tumultuous, nascent relationship falters.  Delia must navigate her way through her own preconceived notions in order to embrace happiness.





	1. One day

**Author's Note:**

> Hat tip to @universalcinnamonroll on Tumblr for the prompt about a medical AU. This idea spawned from there. It's taken a vastly different road, but the seed came from this point, so thanks.
> 
> Also my greatest thanks to @thinkbusbythink (Think_Busby_Think) who is the best cheer squad and sounding board and fellow writer that anyone could ever hope for.

It was a truth universally acknowledged, that a single nurse in possession of a Saturday night without a shift, must be in want of a night on the town. However little or well know the feelings of such a nurse may be on completing a long and taxing week at work, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of their immediate family that their time is considered to be the rightful property of some one or other of their siblings.

Delia Busby sighed as she stared in the mirror, carefully applying a shade of lipstick just this side of risque. Although she loved her sister dearly, there were some evenings when she wished Trixie would just be content to stay home and watch television. It was exhausting to constantly go out on the pull. Not to mention expensive.

They were never going to save up enough to move out at this rate.

She blinked at herself, making sure her mascara had set clean. Smiled in satisfaction at the neat lines of her eye liner. She might not be particularly bothered going out, but no one could accuse her of not looking her best.

A thud on the adjoining wall made Delia smile. Wry.

“Come on Deels. Are you nearly ready? I booked the Uber for 9:45.” Trixie’s voice was muffled, but the walls of their 19th century home were thin and her sister’s exasperation was more than evident.

“Hold your horses, Trix. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs then.”

“Yes.”

One last tug on dark hair, a final attempt to make it sit nicely. Blue eyes rolled at herself in the mirror, regretting for the millionth time letting Trixie talk her into getting a fringe. It was taking years to grow out, and Delia was so done with the wisps escaping from behind her ears and creating a halo. One hand smoothed the lines of her skirt, the other adjusted the scoop neck of her top so it revealed only the perfect amount of decolletage.

“As good as you’re going to get Busby. Now get moving before Trixie has your hide.”

Her reflection smirked back at her.

Trixie waited at the bottom of the stairs, nodded in satisfaction when she saw Delia’s outfit. “You look wonderful Deels. The ladies won’t know what hit them.” Blue eyes sparkling.

“You clean up pretty well yourself Trix.” A pause. “Not that you don’t know that perfectly well.”

“A girl always likes to hear it Delia. You’d do well to remember that.”

They laughed, companionable. Interrupted by a notification pinging insistently on Trixie’s phone.

“Oh, the car’s here.”

“We’re off Mam. Don’t wait up.”

“Be careful girls.” A thick Welsh accent filtered through the house. “And do try to meet the right sort of fellows.” A pause. “And girls.”

“Mam…”

“Don’t Mam me, I’m your mother. I only want what’s best for you.”

“Bye Mam.”

“Make sure you take jackets girls. It’s sure to be chilly when you get in.”

Blue eyes rolled in unison, a well practiced expression. But hands dutifully grabbed jackets from the coat rack on the way out of the front door. Some arguments weren’t worth having.

Delia clutched soft leather as they sat in the back of the car, fingers stroking absently over the worn and well loved coat as Trixie flirted happily with the Uber driver. The jacket had been her big indulgence when her first nursing pay packet came through. It had seen her through cool spring mornings and chilly winter nights and several relationships, provided comfort and warmth and a water resistant surface that had repelled many a salty tear.

She shrugged it on now, stepping out of the car into the cool evening air. Rolled her eyes at the line stretching down the block.

“Trixie, please tell me that you have a plan to get in. If you think I’m waiting in that queue you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Relax sweetie.” Trixie blew a kiss to the driver, closed the car door, before turning to face her sister. “Fred’s working tonight.”

“Oh lord. Are you sure?”

“I spoke to Violet this morning when I got my hair done.”

“Of course you did.”

Delia trailed behind her sister as they bypassed the queue, made their way to the doorway. Naturally Trixie made the grandest entrance possible, her heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement.

“Hello Fred!”

The man at the door looked up from his form guide, his closely cropped grey hair shining in the harsh glare of the overhead light.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite pair of sisters.” He stuffed the newsprint into his back pocket, a genial grin spreading across his face. “What are you lot up to then?”

“Well, we were rather hoping to slip in. Delia’s been working ridiculously hard all week and she absolutely needs to let her hair down.”

“Oh, you’re a good girl Delia. I wish my Marlene worked half as hard as you.”

“Thanks Fred.” Delia smiled up at the older man, fond. “I can see Violet’s cooking is starting to catch up with you again.” Patted his stomach gently where the buttons of his white shirt strained to close over his belly.

Fred chuckled. “What can I say? My wife's the best cook in the world.” Rueful.

“Tell her I’m going to need to come and beg some jam off her soon. We’re all out, and shop bought is just not the same.”

“I will, love. Now you two scoot inside before I get myself into trouble for standing out here chatting.”

He ushered them through the entryway, nodding to the doorman to let them into the venue. The heavy door swung slowly, releasing a blast of electronic music and fetid air. Delia sighed, followed her sister into the fug of cologne, alcohol and inadequately masked body odour.

 

* * *

 

Pickings were exceedingly slim that evening. Delia eyed Trixie’s gyrating form with some envy. The blonde had managed to snag one of the only good looking blokes in the whole place, and was now contentedly ensconced in his arms. Delia had fended off at least seven well meaning guys who needed a little encouragement to believe they were barking up the wrong tree.

She had noticed a tall, handsome woman watching this happen, a gleam of amusement in brown eyes. Thought she might be in with a chance there, but a drink was pressed into the woman’s hands and arms looped around her waist.

A muttered expletive, a shrug. But there was no point being anything other than pragmatic about lost opportunities. She had enough stress in her life without adding to it.

A quick glance at her phone revealed the time to be far too early to expect Trixie to agree to leave, especially when it looked like she was getting on splendidly with her chap on the dancefloor. Delia decided on another drink to pass the time, and maybe a trip to the loo. Was about to step off to the bar when her passage was blocked by a stocky body clad in jeans and a button down shirt. She sighed, prepared to let down another guy, when she glanced up at the person’s face.

She wasn’t pretty, but there was something attractive in the line of her jaw, in the sweep of dark hair pushed back off her face. “You’re not going are you?”

“Just to the bar.”

“Dance first? Then I’ll buy you a drink if you like.”

Delia studied hopeful grey eyes. She seemed nice enough, and her eyes were an interesting colour.

“Alright then.”

 

* * *

 

It was all going quite well until her grey eyed admirer kissed her. Delia wasn’t against kissing in principle, she was usually quite happy to have a quick end of the night snog. They’d been dancing for quite some time, had a few drinks. She wasn’t a bad dancer at all, this woman - whose name Delia had missed in introductions, and she’d felt too embarrassed to ask again.

So when she’d been pulled close, bodies flush, Delia had been quite content to let it happen. When their lips met though…

Nothing.

Not a glimmer of heat, no rush of passion. It was limp and awkward and Delia screamed internally while she composed her face into a careful smile.

Excused herself gracefully to find Trixie.

“Again Delia?” Exasperated.

“It’s not like I’m doing it deliberately Trix! I can’t help what I feel.” Defensive.

“I know sweetie. I know.”

The blonde had turned back to her dancing partner, spoken into his ear. Numbers quickly exchanged, and then the sisters wound their way through the crowded floor to the exit.

Delia was grateful for her coat as they stepped into the early morning chill. Sighed in relief as the doors closed behind them and she could breath deeply of relatively untainted air. Or as untainted as London air could be.

She listened peacefully as Trixie chatted excitedly about her evening. Made hopeful and affirmative noises in the right places, without investing too much energy into the conversation. She knew her sister. Knew there’d be a future date that didn’t involve alcohol and dancing, and the shine would fade quickly.

One day Trixie was going to find a man who treated her well and captured her attention for more than a week, and for all their sakes she hoped it was soon.

One day she might even find a woman for herself too. One who could engage her mind and her senses and who could make Delia feel. Could make her lose herself in desire and lust and all the things the romance novels promised but her real life interactions never delivered.

Delia was so very tired of tepid kisses and lukewarm embraces. She wanted fire and heat and a raging incendiary passion that obliterated reason and sense and she wanted to throw herself into the inferno willingly. She longed for it in fact.

One day.


	2. Uncertainty and ambiguity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday afternoon at home with the Busbys.

Delia sprawled on the sitting room sofa, head hanging off the cushions and one leg flung over the back. Her jeans were unbuttoned to accommodate a noticeably distended belly, grumbling angrily as it digested copious quantities of Sunday dinner.

“Mam, you need to stop with all the rich foods. I’m going to be useless for the rest of the afternoon at this rate.”

“Don’t you even try that with me young lady. I didn’t force you to eat seconds.” Mrs Busby gazed sternly at her middle daughter over the top of her spectacles, her embroidery momentarily forgotten in her lap.

“Yes Delia. Some of us are perfectly capable of controlling ourselves with food.”

“Shut up Trixie. Nobody asked you.”

The blonde giggled in response, returned her attention to the pile of fashion magazines beside her.

“You know Delia, gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins.” Winifred could never resist getting her opinion into any conversation, no matter how unwelcome. “You should probably go for a walk to improve your digestion.”

Delia glared at her baby sister, eyes narrowed. “Well at least a walk would be productive Freddie. You’ve spent the last hour pretending to work on your essay but I can see you’ve been on tumblr again. Haven’t you exhausted all the christian motivational blogs yet?”

Freddie, predictably, reddened and started to splutter.

“Delia!” Also predictably, Trixie rushed to Freddie’s defence. “Stop picking on her just because you feel like rubbish.” The blonde looked over at her youngest sister, concern etched onto delicate features. “Freddie, isn’t it due by Wednesday?”

“Yeeeessssss.” Morose. “I’m not actually sure how I’m going to get it done.”

“Alright then.” Trixie’s copy of Vogue was placed neatly atop the stack of magazines, and the blonde dragged a chair over to the desk to sit beside her sister. “What have you done so far?”

“Trixie you don’t have time to help me. I know you’ve got your own assignment to do.”

“Nonsense. I’ll just help you to get started and then I’ll go back to my own work.”

Delia listened as Trixie guided their sister through developing a plan for her essay, and wrote a to do list of achievable goals for Freddie to complete each day. The blonde had always been so good with their baby sister, patient and forgiving and always always seeing the good in her, even when Delia was aggravated and just plain puzzled. She still failed to see what on earth had drawn Freddie towards studying theology. Their mother’s devout insistence on Sunday church had been something to be endured, her teenaged self taking great delight in proclaiming her atheism and staunch renunciation of the family faith.

Mrs Busby had refused to speak to her for a month.

Delia closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to absorb the peaceful vibe of the afternoon. Aware of the plucking, drawing noise of her mother’s embroidery efforts, the occasional page turn as Mr Busby sat in his favourite armchair.

“Don’t fall asleep there, cariad. You’ll give yourself a horrible crick in your neck with your head in that position.”

“I’m not asleep Da, don’t worry.”

Another moment, and Delia hoisted herself upright on the sofa. Stood and twisted her torso left and right to realign her spine.

“Well, I think I’ll leave you all to it. I might actually take Freddie’s suggestion and head to the gym.” Leaned over the desk and deposited a fond kiss on both Trixie and Freddie’s heads. It was the closest she’d come to apologising for snapping earlier and they all knew it. Freddie smiled back, gummy and genuine and Delia resolved once again to stop being quite so critical of her baby sister.

She’d barely hit the stairs when the doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it.” A pause. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Probably just salesmen. Give ‘em their marching orders, cariad.”

“Will do Da.”

Suspicious blue peeked through the smallest gap in the door as she cracked it open, warming and widening and they met the hazel-green eyes of her best friend.

“Barbara! What are you doing here?”

Delia flung the door open, grabbed her friend by the arm to hurry her inside the house.

“I’ve been trying to call you, then I remembered the Sunday afternoon rule.”

“Phone’s upstairs. What is it?”

“Did you not see the email that came in this morning?”

“What email?”

“Honestly, Delia…”

“Hey, give me a break. I was out with Trixie last night.” Unable to completely mask the exhausted exasperation.

“Oh. Right.” A hand clasped her own, squeezed briefly. “Well go and look at it now. The hospital’s being rebranded. Or bought out. It’s hard to tell. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“What?” Her heart clenched, iron bands constricting her chest. She’d worked so hard to get ahead in the hospital, if she lost her job now…

“I don’t think it’s much more than aesthetic to be be honest. It says staffing will continue as normal.”

“Oh thank god for that.” She bolted up the stairs, fetched the phone from her bedside table. Silently cursing her mother for their enforced phone free family time. A quick stop in Trixie’s room yielded the blonde’s phone, the lock screen full of messages. Trixie was nothing if not popular with the lads.

Delia entered the living room to see Barbara ensconced on the sofa, a worried looking Trixie beside her. She shoved them over with her hip, making room on the two seater for herself. Wordlessly passed Trixie her phone as she squeezed next to her.

Steadfastly ignored the barely veiled glare directed at them by Mrs Busby.

They read the email in silence, the sick feeling in Delia’s stomach causing an awful fluttering that only increased her digestive discomfort.

_Name change and facilities upgrade program._

_Mount-Keville Memorial Hospital._

_No staffing changes at this time._

_New board members._

_Inaugural charity dinner._

A relieved sigh echoed beside her, Trixie’s posture visibly relaxing. “Well, that doesn’t seem too bad at all. I was quite concerned when you said the hospital was being taken over.”

Delia only wished she shared Trixie’s relentless ability to think the best about a situation.

“It’s really not clear is it? You were right about that Barbara.”

“I know. Whoever wrote that was determined to reveal the barest detail possible.”

“Bloody lawyers probably.”

Mr Busby had closed his book, put it carefully down onto the end table next to his armchair. “Don’t keep us in the dark then, girls. What’s going on with the hospital?”

“Well, it’s not entirely clear Mr Busby. I mean, on the face of it the hospital is being re-named and re-branded and is getting a facilities overhaul.”

“Which sounds wonderful. We could desperately use some new equipment.”

“I know Trix. But reading between the lines it sounds like someone with an obscene amount of money has bought themselves a place on the board.”

“That’s cynical even for you Delia.”

“Is it?”

“What’s the new name?”

“Oh, sorry Da. It’s the Mount-Keville Memorial Hospital. Named after two elderly board members who have died recently.”

“Delia, have a little respect for the deceased.”

“What? How was that disrespectful Mam?”

“Must you be so…” A shudder. “Blunt?”

Blue eyes rolled expressively, her mother’s delicate sensibilities an endless source of irritation. Years of nursing had honed her already pragmatic nature, and she rarely had time for unnecessary and outdated middle class niceties.

“New board members and new money means change. God knows what they’ll do.”

“That was my fear as well Delia. I’m glad I’m not the only one who read it that way.”

Delia laughed, smiled at her best friend affectionately. “Barbara, when was the last time we disagreed on something?” The two had been friends since infant school, Barbara’s calm good humour balancing Delia’s quick wit and fiery temperament perfectly.

“Pretty sure it was Eurovision last year.”

“That’s only because you have ridiculous taste in music.”

Barbara scoffed, a grin lighting up her whole face. “Says you! I’m sorry, who is it that listens to 50s and 60s music non-stop?”

“Hey, it’s vintage. Vintage is so in right now. Isn’t that right Trix?”

“I think you’ll find that vintage _fashion_ is in Delia. Not that ghastly music you insist on listening to incessantly.”

Delia raised a hand to her chest, the other to her brow. Overacted the wounded look so hard that Freddie actually snorted in amusement, distracted from her essay.

“Both of you are missing the best part of this whole business in any case.” Trixie sat up, blue eyes sparkling. “There’s going to be a charity dinner. Including the whole hospital.” She drifted off for a moment, a dreamy smile on her face. “Imagine the quality of the champagne. They won’t serve rubbish to the board members.”

“I don’t think I’ll be going. I certainly don’t want to pander to the new money.”

“Delia… read it again. I don’t think we’ve an option but to attend.”

“What, it only says staff are strongly encouraged to attend.”

“Precisely.”

“You know as well as I do that’s polite business speak for compulsory attendance. Don’t be obstinate.” Barbara was one of the few people in the world who could get away with speaking to her that way.

“Oh hush.” A pause. “Stop being so damn sensible.”

“How can you not want to go Deels? What a wonderful opportunity to dress up. And to actually get a chance to talk to some of the doctors outside of the ward.” Trixie was planning her outfit already, Delia could see it in the slight crease between her brows, the faraway look in her eyes that always happened when Trixie was working on an idea.

“Oh, I don’t know. Somehow I’m not that keen on sucking up to the rich nobs who are likely to do me out of a job.”

“Don’t be silly Deels. Everyone in the hospital loves you. Out of all of us your job is guaranteed to be the safest.”

“I’m not convinced Trix. You watch, they’ll find a way to ruin things.”

“Well, we’re more likely to keep our jobs if we play the game, and that’s the reality. So yes Delia, we will all be going and you will talk to whoever you need to talk to in order to make sure that happens.” Barbara smiled, taking some of the sting out of her blunt words.

“Fine. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” A pause. “Now what the fuck am I going to wear?”

“Delia!”

“Sorry Mam.”


	3. An uncommon arrogance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia, Trixie and Barbara attend the charity dinner.

The next three weeks flew by in a blur of whispers and rumours and speculation. Each day at the hospital something changed. The signage, the logo. The computer system. The uniforms. None of it was malicious, it was all completely above board and with due notice. It was simply done with a ruthless efficiency that put people’s back up. By the time of the charity dinner the level of resentment among the staff almost rivalled the anticipation of finally seeing the incoming board members and getting the whole story about the new arrangements.

The charity dinner was the most talked about event anyone at the hospital could honestly remember. It even eclipsed the time that Prince Harry had been admitted for stitches and scans after an overly boisterous game of rugby, and that had kept the gossips happy for years.

The fact that all the higher ups had been determinedly tight lipped hadn’t dampened the rumour mill or the rampant speculation in the slightest. Delia couldn’t cross paths with someone without hearing a new theory, another invention, some new tidbit making its way around the grapevine. Her opinion, never favourable to begin with, steadily soured along with her mood, and it required all of Barbara’s good sense and persuasion to convince Delia not to blow off the charity dinner completely. That, and the threat of Trixie’s ire.

Her sister had worked ceaselessly over the course of the three intervening weeks putting together outfits for the three of them to wear, stitching and sewing and altering. She’d even managed to make it a part of one of the assessments for her fashion design course, and Delia had been told in no uncertain terms that she would attend and she would damn well wear the dress and be grateful.

And although Delia would rather be doing almost anything than going to this stupid dinner, she really was quite excited by the dress that Trixie had fashioned for her. It was a deep, luscious blue that highlighted her eyes and did all sorts of flattering things to her figure. Although she was a bit dubious about the back of the dress - or more accurately the lack of a back. It plunged from tapered straps into a vee in the very small of her back and left her feeling rather exposed. Barbara’s eyebrows had shot up almost into her hairline the first time she’d tried it on, and Delia had been on the verge of asking Trixie to make it slightly less revealing when her mother had caught sight of her and nearly choked on her own tongue.

Delia had resolved to keep the plunging back then and there.

She stared into the mirror now, putting some final touches on her make up. Delia didn’t usually favour the dark and smoky look but given the shimmering depth of the dress she thought it could work. Trixie had wrestled her hair into a messy updo that contained most of the flyaway wisps and showed off the lines of her shoulders very nicely.

Her reflection smiled back at her, dark and enigmatic.

Satisfied, Delia made her way down stairs, shoes in hand. They’d learned the hard way that the steep, narrow staircase did not mix well with heels.

Barbara waited at the entrance, rigid and self-conscious. Her dress - elegant, sky blue and floor length - emphasised the crooked tilt of her shoulders, the jut of her hip.

Delia studied her best friend. Smiled.

“Barbara, don’t take this the wrong way but you need to stand straight.” Small hands grasped Barbara’s shoulders, guided her into an upright position. “The lines on this dress make you look like a broken column if you don’t.”

“She’s right, you know.” Trixie’s voice preceded her down the staircase. “That boat neck is extremely flattering if your clavicles are even, but it does rather look off putting if you slouch.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Barbara rolled her eyes at both of them, but obliged and took a deep breath, letting her spine align. Chin tilted.

“That’s better.”

“Oh Barbara, you really do look lovely.”

“You all look beautiful!” Mr Busby appeared in the hallway, digital camera in hand. “I need to take a photo of the three of you, all done up like a right set of angels.”

Trixie was only too happy to comply, directing Delia and Barbara with military precision until she was satisfied with their appearance. Mr Busby took snap after snap, exchanging his camera for their phones.

It was only when Delia was sitting in the cab later, looking at the photos, that she understood what Trixie had done. Her own dress was stunning, suiting her darker looks. Likewise, Barbara’s highlighted the length of her torso and the colour flattered her complexion. But viewed as a trio, they were mere bookends. Trixie sparkled between them, her royal blue ensemble vivid and eye catching. They were a living colour swatch, and Delia couldn’t help be impressed by her sister’s ingenuity.

Blonde hair curled in loose waves, bracketing the straps of the halter neck. The dress dipped in the front, terminating at a point midway from bust to navel. It highlighted a tasteful hint of cleavage, but more importantly drew the eye down past the waistline of the dress, which clung jealously to the curve of Trixie’s hips and thighs, conceding at the knees and flaring gracefully into a pool at her feet.

There was no doubt about it, Trixie was going to be the most beautiful woman in the room.

 

* * *

 

The venue was already stuffy and crowded by the time the cab arrived. Trixie had wanted to be late, had wanted to make an entrance, but the effect was sadly lost to the crush in the room. Delia gazed around the room, blue eyes noting with interest the tables at the head of the hall, the expensive tuxedos and sumptuous ballgowns that marked the cohort of board members. The board had nothing to do with the day to day running of the hospital, so the vast majority of them were completely unknown to the staff. Delia wondered which of the privileged snobs at the far end of the room was responsible for this event, but quickly gave up on trying to pick who the new members were.

She scanned the room, smiling at friends and colleagues from around the hospital. Laughed as she noticed her sister, champagne already in hand and surrounded by a gaggle of eager gentlemen.

Some things never changed.

A circuit of the room identified their seats for the evening, at a modestly central table that allowed a decent view of the dance floor and the podium. A friendly and attractive server handed her a glass of sparkling wine that tingled smoothly on her tongue and brought an involuntary smile to her lips.

Trixie had not been wrong about the quality of the drinks.

The smile froze on her features as Delia caught sight of an unfamiliar figure at the bar. Her eye had been caught by a mass of vibrantly red hair, but closer inspection revealed a tailored suit, and legs that went on and on. Sinfully tall heels in scarlet patent leather finished the look, and Delia was aware of a sudden dryness in her throat.

Who the hell was this woman? And would she ever turn around?

The woman turned to speak to the man next to her, revealing a sharp cheekbone and patrician profile. Delia watched, rapt, as she murmured in her companion’s ear. A smirk drawing the corner of lush red lips up and Delia felt an uncharacteristic pull in her abdomen.

That withered as the woman threw an arm around the man's neck. Placed a kiss on his cheek as the announcement was made for the dinner service. Unused to the sudden rush of attraction, Delia forced herself to watch as he hugged the woman back. Grasped her shoulders and propelled her firmly towards the head of the room. He wandered off towards the surgeon’s table as the woman stalked to her place, discomfort radiating from every rigid line of her body.

A server greeted her, pulled out a seat. At the board table.

Caught somewhere between intrigue and disappointment, Delia could only stare. Until Barbara grasped her elbow. Tugged her towards their waiting seats with a questioning look.

Delia shook off her torpor, brushed off her best friend's concerned stare and retreated behind the shelter of small talk and dinner. The food was excellent, the wine even better, and by the second glass she had quite recovered, engaged in rowdy banter with her table mates.

The dessert service was accompanied by the screech of feedback as an elderly man stepped up to the podium.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I trust you've had a pleasant meal and enjoyed this opportunity to socialise with your colleagues. My name is Charles Newgarden. I've been a member of the Hospital Board for longer than I care to remember, and it is my honour this evening to introduce you to the newest of our number. She is one of the finest surgeons that I have encountered these twenty years or more. Although I was deeply saddened by the passing of her father, a man whose service to this hospital was longstanding and exemplary, I am excited to have Patience Mount join us. Her skill and knowledge and passion will be an asset to us all, and her youth will mean she has many many years to give us. Please join me in welcoming Dr Mount."

Muted applause echoed, louder at the top where management and the surgical team were seated. The applause lessened in volume and eagerness as it traversed the length of the room, noticeably lacklustre by the time it reached the nurses and support staff.

Patience Mount didn't appear to notice. The redhead rose to her feet, abrupt. Reached the podium to be kissed on both cheeks by the older gentlemen, a condescending pat deposited on her hand. Even from halfway down the room Delia could see the woman's jaw clench.

Dr Mount took a deep breath as she stepped up to the microphone. Fixed her gaze on a point at the very rear of the hall.

"Thank you very much, Mr Newgarden, for your kind words. I only hope I can live up to my father's legacy and be of service to the hospital the way that he was." Her diction clipped and severe, her accent dripping money and privilege and public school education.

"I know many of you are concerned about the changes that you've observed in the hospital over the past few weeks. I'm not here to give you the whole story this evening."

A rustle of movement. Disappointment. Of murmured annoyance.

Dr Mount waited for silence.

"Rest assured the full documentation will be available from tomorrow, listing the board's plans for the hospital and the upgrades that are being phased in over the course of the next few months. I would like to speak today about one in particular. One that was close to my father's heart, and to my own."

The stilted, rigid awkwardness of her speech belied the doctor's words. It was clear that the last thing she wanted to do was be up at the podium announcing this.

"It was my father's last wish to develop a new focus in the hospital. From next week you will notice that the eastern wing will be closed off and refurbished. I hope that within six weeks the first patients will be admitted into the new specialist surgical department - Plastics and Reconstruction."

The buzz was palpable this time, and not easily silenced. Dr Mount gave them a moment. Cleared her throat.

"This evening was planned to thank you for your loyal and high quality service to the hospital. We have also invited many of our significant donors so that they have the opportunity to meet with you and understand the importance of every member of the hospital team. Please make them welcome, and enjoy the rest of your evening."

Dr Mount retreated to her seat at the table, her expression closed.

 

* * *

 

The evening progressed from dessert to liquers, and as the drinks were served a small four piece band set up on the side of the dance floor. Swift and efficient.

Trixie was one of the first to take the floor, and a string of hopeful partners lined the floor. Delia had no doubt that if she’d had a dance card, it would have been full twice over.

Delia was not often lacking a dance partner herself, being neither particularly sober nor picky as to the gender of her partner. Determined to make the most of the evening and the free champagne, she danced with just about anyone who approached her, including many older (and slightly lecherous) gentlemen who she assumed were hospital donors. Nobody was going to accuse her of not doing her bit.

Even if the thought of a plastic surgery department was completely ridiculous.

She should have known. Should have suspected that someone that beautiful would follow the most shallow surgical path available. It made Delia wonder if Dr Mount had undergone plastic surgery herself, because she really was rather spectacularly gorgeous.

Needing a breather, Delia sat back at the table, watching both Trixie and Barbara on the dance floor. Was about to take a sip of a rather lovely nutty smelling liqueur when she caught sight of Dr Mount on the dance floor. Her partner, a conventionally beautiful if somewhat stuck up looking brunette, looked familiar. Delia thought she might be one of the new nurses in Oncology. Jennifer maybe.

Trixie had just changed partners, and Delia watched as the previous guy wandered away from the floor, looking a little wonderstruck. Couldn't suppress a giggle at his expense. Before she realised that he was the same man who had hugged Dr Mount at the bar before dinner.

Interesting.

The song concluded, and Dr Mount moved swiftly from the dance floor. Discomfort quickly masked by a fixed, cold expression - so fast that Delia wondered if she imagined it. Chastised herself soundly for paying so much attention to a woman who was undoubtedly attractive, but likely to be one of the most unpleasantly privileged people she'd have the misfortune to encounter. If that ever occurred.

The doctor made her way to an empty table, just to the rear of Delia’s own. Stood behind a seat, hands rhythmically gripping the chair back. Blue eyes wide. Breathing rapid.

Delia watched out of the corner of her eye, perplexed. Was summoning up the fortitude to approach the woman and ask it she was okay when her friend from the bar approached her.

“I know you’re uncomfortable, but I hate to see you lurking about like this.”

“Just leave me be Chris.”

They spoke in low tones but the words carried to Delia’s position easily.

“I can’t. You need to make a little effort Patsy. You’re going to be working with these people for the foreseeable future, and you need to be able to get along.”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting along with anyone in a professional capacity Chris. I don’t need to socialise with them as well.”

He reached out, gently clasped a hand and loosened the white knuckled grip.

“I’m worried about you isolating yourself again.”

The redhead allowed their hands to be linked for a moment, before pulling away.

“Chris just… Forget about me alright? Your sister is the only person in the room I care to spend any time with other than you.” A pause. “Go and find a pretty nurse to distract you. That blonde you were dancing with earlier is certainly attractive.”

“She is, isn’t she? Her name is Trixie.”

He let out a long sigh, and Delia felt her lips twitch in amusement. Sincerely hoped that neither of them realised how intently she was listening to their conversation.

“Look, just there, that’s actually Trixie’s sister.”

It took every single skerrick of control to not react. To keep her shoulders loose and her hand relaxed. Her breathing steady.

“She’s quite pretty too, and as I hear it one of the most competent members of the nursing staff. She’s a nurse practitioner.”

A huff, and blue eyes rolled. Obvious even from the periphery of Delia’s sight.

“I still don’t know why anyone thought that nurse practitioners were a good idea. Diagnosis and prescription should be reserved for those qualified to do so.”

“Patsy…”

“Look Chris, I’m not about to give some upstart nurse with ideas above her station the consequence of my attention, no matter how pretty she is. She’s clearly alone for a reason. Now go. You’re wasting your time with me.”

A little of the liqueur splashed out of her glass as Delia lowered it to the table. The skin on her lip abraded from biting back the hot retort on her tongue.

Of all the arrogant, ignorant, self-centred, stuck up… Delia breathed deeply, willing herself to calm and quiet. Caught Barbara’s eye and bounced out of her seat, eager to share the content of the conversation she had overhead. Her best friend was going to love it.


	4. Making an impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris brings an unanticipated guest to Barbara's housewarming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has obviously been a long time coming, my apologies for that. I'm not going to lie, the news about Kate and Emerald leaving CtM really knocked me for a six. The magic and the passion has ebbed away leaving only a painful sorrow. And yeah that's melodramatic but it's honestly how I'm feeling about it right now. And have been since the news broke. I think it broke me.
> 
> That said, I am going to finish this journey, I'm still very much invested in this particular version of their story. It was hard writing this - I felt rusty and out of practice, so I'm sorry if it's not up to my usual standards.

Barbara had not been as amused as Delia hoped when she recounted the exchange she had overheard between the two surgeons. Delia had wanted to laugh about it and then let it go, get the redheaded woman out of her head. But Barbara was unusually disobliging and so Delia dwelled on the snub for quite some time. Talking to Trixie about it proved useless as well, because once she’d sobered up enough the next day to comprehend what Delia was saying, her attention was riveted by the contents of the conversation as it pertained to her.

Delia was not normally one to hold grudges. Her temper, while volatile, was usually short lived and it galled her now to be so hung up on this one stupid conversation that she was never meant to hear in the first place. She willed herself to forget it so many times, but then she’d find herself - fists clenched and teeth grinding - mulling over the exact intonation that Dr Mount had used, the derision in her tone when she dismissed nurse practitioners. It was infuriating.

So infuriating that Mrs Busby caught her out one evening the following week, stabbing the hapless haddock on her plate.

“Whatever is the matter Delia? You’ve thoroughly murdered that poor fish, and if you’re not careful you’re going to scratch the roses right off that plate.”

Startled, blue eyes looked up.

“It’s nothing Mam.”

“Don’t give me that nonsense. You’ve had a face like a thundercloud for more than a week now, it’s getting on my poor nerves.”

A deep breath. Delia forced a smile onto her features. “Sorry Mam.”

“I’ll not be brushed off Delia. Tell me what’s the matter.”

“It’s nothing that you need to worry about Mam. I’ll try to be mindful of my mood from now on, alright?” Delia loathed placating her mother like this, but sometimes it was easier than the alternative.

“Delia…”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Exasperated, Trixie chimed in from her seat opposite Delia. “One of the new board members snubbed Delia at the charity dance and she’s been stewing about it ever since.”

“Snubbed my Delia, did he?” Mr Busby’s tone was glacial.

“It was a she, Da, not a he. And no she didn’t. Not really. I overheard a conversation I wasn’t supposed to and it ticked me off more than it should. Serves me right for listening in where I’m not welcome.”

Delia expected her mother to agree with that last statement, but curiously her expression seemed more aggrieved on Delia’s behalf than at the nurse herself.

“Snubbed you how, cariad?”

“She just… She doesn’t have a high opinion of nurse practitioners, put it that way.”

“It was more than that.” Delia shot Trixie a dark look. Traitor. “Chris was trying to get her to ask Delia to dance, or at least talk to her, and she point blank refused.”

“Refused, eh?” Mr Busby’s blue eyes had paled to an icy grey.

“Well, I never.” Mrs Busby’s mouth turned down into a perfect frown, her brows drawn. “Refusing you and then talking nonsense about the work that you do. Another time, Delia, you make sure you reject her, wealthy board member or not.”

“I doubt another opportunity will arise, or that she’ll ever interact with me. But I think I can safely guarantee that I’ll never spend any time with that woman, Mam.”

Mrs Busby nodded firmly, her solidarity with Delia strange but far from unpleasant.

A lull fell over the dinner table, as they dutifully scraped up the last of their meals. It was some minutes before Mrs Busby looked up, her gazed centred firmly on Trixie.

“Now who is this Chris fellow that you mentioned?”

 

* * *

 

 

Clutching a potted geranium, Delia used her elbow to ring Barbara’s doorbell while balancing the two bottles of wine she carried under her arm. She shot Trixie an aggravated look as the blonde ignored her predicament, focused on the compact in her hand as she applied some last minute touches to her lipstick.

“You could have helped you know?”

“Sorry sweetie. It was an emergency.”

The door opened before Delia could voice a reply. Barbara stood before them, an unopened can of lager in one hand and a frazzled expression on her face.

“Oh thank goodness you’re here!”

“Sorry we’re a bit late. We got…”

“Never mind that Delia.” Trixie wrenched the plant from Delia’s grasp, thrust it into Barbara’s startled hands. “Happy house warming!”

“Oh. Thank you.” Barbara juggled the plant and the can of beer in her hands as Trixie grinned, satisfied. “Do come in.”

“Do you need any help with anything?”

“Oh, no thank you Trixie, I think everything’s sorted now.”

“Alright. But do let me know if there’s anything you need.”

And then she was gone. Delia shook her head, endlessly bemused by Trixie’s capacity to leave a trail of happy chaos in her wake. Carefully plucked the pot plant out of Barbara’s hands and smiled at her best friend. “Let’s get this wine into the kitchen shall we? And then find a home for your leafy friend here.”

Delia followed her friend down the hall and into the tiny kitchen, although she didn’t need to be shown the way. The nurse was intimately acquainted with Barbara’s new flat, having helped her friend to move the previous weekend. Barbara and her younger sister Maria had just signed the lease on their first home - getting out from under the thumb of well meaning but overbearing parents. Delia was thrilled for her best friend. Honestly absolutely thrilled. But it galled her knowing her own independence was so far out of reach still.

“Now Delia, I need to warn you…”

The worry in Barbara’s tone broke through her envious reverie, blue eyes meeting anxious hazel. “What is it?”

“Well, you see… I…. It’s just that…”

Usually practical and straight-forward, the fact that Barbara was prevaricating was enough to make Delia’s stomach clench, icy tendrils winding their way around her heart.

“For gods sake, spit it out woman.”

“I invited that new surgeon that Trixie likes and he brought *her* with him.” All in one breath, barely a discernible gap between the words. The emphasis on the her enough to make Barbara’s meaning painfully clear.

“Dr Mount?”

“I’m afraid so. And his sister too. I honestly never expected him to turn up, let alone bring… someone with him.” So distressed that she was actually wringing her hands.

Delia reached out and clasped Barbara’s hands with her own. Stilled the compulsive clutching motions and stroked the backs soothingly with her thumbs. “Don't fret Babs, honestly. You weren’t to know.” A pause, as she released her grip. “Although what on earth possessed you to invite him in the first place?”

“Well, I thought… For Trixie…”

A sigh, and Delia smiled. Wry. “Well, I can’t say that I’m overjoyed, but it’s only a few hours. If I’m lucky it’ll help to to get the whole ridiculous situation out of my system.” Impulsively, she hugged her best friend. Barbara heaved a shuddering sigh, and palpably relaxed when Delia released her. “Come on then. Let’s see what trouble I can stir up.”

“Delia…” Pleading.

“I’m kidding.”

 

* * *

 

 

There were a surprisingly large number of people crammed into Barbara and Maria’s living room. So much so that the space had proved inadequate, and Delia could see through the open doorways that some of their friends were sitting on beds and even camped out on the hall floor. You couldn’t make your way through the room without brushing up against someone. Everyone, that is, with the exception of Dr Mount.

She occupied one corner of the room, emitting an icy force field that kept a solid radius around her clear. Delia had never seen such perfect posture. Nor such rigid aloofness. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of her trousers, the other grasping a glass so tightly Delia could see the whiteness of her fingertips.

Remembering that she wasn’t here to dwell on the red headed surgeon, Delia glanced about the room. Smiled and waved at friends and colleagues alike until her gaze was drawn to her sister. Glass of bubbles in hand, locked in conversation with the new surgeon. Chris.

His attention was complete, hanging on every flirtatious word out of Trixie’s mouth. So obviously enamoured that Delia didn’t bother suppressing her snort of amusement. A quizzical look from Barbara answered with a toss of her head in Trixie’s direction.

“She works fast, I’ll give her that.”

“When she’s on a mission, nothing will stop her.”

Delia studied him, wondering if this time it might be different for Trixie. Chris was handsome, if your taste ran to blonde and bland. And he certainly seemed interested.

 

* * *

 

 

The evening passed pleasantly in a buzz of wine and good conversation. Delia worked her way around the room, taking care to introduce herself to any unfamiliar faces she came across. There were a number of new staff at the hospital recently, and it seemed as if Barbara and Maria had invited them all. Occasionally, quite without her conscious consent, Delia found her gaze drawn to the far corner of the living room. Dr Mount was occasionally joined by Chris, frequently by Chris’s sister Jenny.

Jenny was slim and well dressed, and would have been quite lovely if not for the perpetual sneer on her face. It was nothing overt - looking at her one would not explicitly say she was sneering. But there was something in her air that decried her superiority, gave the perception that Jenny knew she was better than everyone else in the room. She’d mentioned to Delia, when they’d spoken briefly, that she was a nurse in Oncology. Delia couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. If she toned down that holier than thou attitude when dealing with patients in pain.

It appeared she could switch it off. It was certainly nowhere in evidence when she interacted with Dr Mount. The brunette practically fawned over the austere doctor, batting dark eyelashes and agreeing with whatever the redhead deigned to say.

Delia couldn’t help wondering if the surgeon actually liked it.

She eventually found herself having an animated conversation with Chris about the relative merits of superpowers and arguing vociferously about which would be the most useful. It was a rather unexpected conversation to be having, prompted by several glasses of wine and the fact that she was wearing a Wonder Woman necklace. The more she spoke to him the less bland he seemed, his generic good looks augmented by the infectious enthusiasm and boyish grin that belied the years that he had over them.

“X-ray vision has got to be the most useful. I could diagnose so many issues without needing to go through the rigmarole of radiology.”

“But you *can* send people to radiology to produce the same effect. I’m telling you, telepathy is the most useful power. Then you wouldn’t need to rely on people telling you what’s wrong, or concealing the most important things. You could just read their minds.”

“Look, we’re not going to solve this between the two of us. Come with me!” Chris grabbed her hand, started tugging her in the direction of the far corner. Towards Dr Mount. Delia barely had time to compose herself before she was standing before the woman, flustered and breathless. “Patsy, you need to be the deciding opinion here. Delia and I were arguing about…”

“Superpowers. I heard you.”

Oh. She’d been listening? Delia braved a careful glance, having to look up and up again. The surgeon was rather taller up close, and even more imposing.

“Do excuse me.” Chris seemed to suddenly realise what he’d done, and that the two had never met. “Delia Busby, meet Patsy Mount.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The redhead’s voice was no less proper in an informal setting. Bright blue eyes met Delia’s for a fraction of an instant before skating away, and the nurse got the impression that even that small connection was painful. The doctor’s hand found it’s way back into her pocket.

“Nice to meet you too.” Delia managed a tight smile.

Seemingly oblivious to the awkward tension, Chris blathered on about their argument. Delia barely heard him, watching with uneasy fascination as Dr Mount’s jaw clenched, the muscles in her pale throat flexing as she swallowed. She started when she realised she’d been staring at the tall woman, feeling the heat bloom on her cheeks.

“...so what do *you* think Patsy?”

“I think you both make good arguments, however the point is rather moot. Neither are possible.”

“Patsy…”

“Chris.” Emphatic. “I’m just not in a position to make decisions about comic book heroes right at this moment.” Her voice cracked, and Delia, having looked away in embarrassment, noticed the rhythmic clenching of the hand hidden in her trouser pocket, saw the muscles in her forearm stand out in stark relief. Risked a glance up to see the tight lines of her jaw, the almost imperceptible flare of her nostrils.

Textbook social anxiety. She wasn’t standoffish, she was terrified. Delia’s heart softened for a moment, before she remembered the doctor’s words. Okay, maybe she was standoffish. And also a bitch. But Delia could at least sympathise with the anxiety. That she could do something about.

“Look, it’s not really important right now. Maybe we can discuss this another time Chris.” A brief smile at both of them, and Delia turned and walked away. Very aware of the clear blue eyes following her every move.

Delia continued to be aware of that bright blue gaze until the surgeons left not long afterwards, taking Jenny with them. Each time she turned in the direction of the far corner, Dr Mount would avert her gaze. The attempts were poorly concealed, almost as if the taller woman didn’t care about being caught out. It was so obvious that Barbara commented on it when Delia went back for a last glass of wine.

“What did you say to her? She hasn’t stopped watching you ever since.”

“That’s the thing, I barely said anything.”

“Well, whatever you did, it made an impression.”

Delia wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.


	5. An unanticipated summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia must go to Chris and Jenny's house.

Despite the Eastern wing being some weeks away from completion the hospital was already beginning to take on patients for the Plastics and Reconstruction department. The new focus created an imbalance in staff capabilities, with a higher demand for theatre trained nurses. Trixie was in her element, being given operating room shifts and associating with most of the new doctors that were starting to come on board.

Delia was grateful to have dodged that bullet, safe in the confines of Outpatients. She managed an Infectious Disease Prevention Clinic three days a week, and worked on rotation through her other shifts wherever she was needed. She’d progressed through almost every department in the hospital, content now to ply her expertise in the fast paced clinic environment - where she didn’t need to worry about forming attachments to patients. Her time in Paediatrics had almost ruined her, having to watch tiny humans suffering. In some cases dying. She honestly wasn't sure how anyone worked in the Palliative Hospice and had to nurse patients literally to death.

As the time drew closer to opening, a buzz started building throughout the staff. Many people had already been given new opportunities, and everyone was beginning to see the potential for more. Delia acknowledged that they’d managed the change particularly well, and staff morale was higher than it had been in a long time. Amazing given the extreme level of resentment prior to the charity dinner and announcement.

Delia was even forced to admit that her assumptions about the shallow and money-grubbing nature of the new Plastics focus were somewhat off target after Trixie came home one evening full of stories about the patient she’d been assisting with that afternoon. She’d worked with Chris to help a man who had lost most of his teeth and half of his jaw in an industrial accident. Chris, the dental specialist, had worked with Orthopaedics and they’d managed to save the majority of his jaw and teeth. It wasn’t the first anecdote she’d heard either, having listened to tea room gossip about other reconstruction cases.

Well, she wasn’t above conceding that she’d been wrong. It didn’t stop her from regularly perusing the surgical boards and being just a little bit gratified to see rhinoplasty and breast augmentation surgeries still very much present.

She was only human after all.

 

* * *

 

Some weeks later Delia was enjoying a rare and precious Saturday evening at home by herself. Engrossed in a new book for the first time in ages because Trixie had gone out dancing with Jenny. Her sister had taken to spending a great deal of time with Chris’s sister, given that the doctor had proved somewhat elusive. They spent a fair amount of time together, but always in the presence of others. It was driving Trixie quite mad, and Delia didn’t think that was a bad thing at all. Her sister was so used to clicking her fingers and getting any man she wanted - Delia suspected it made her unable to really value potential partners. Chris was the first man she’d shown interest in for any period of time, and Delia hoped that meant there was something real there. He was clearly besotted, but also cautious, and Delia was tentatively optimistic for the future.

The nurse was settled on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate and a couple of chocolates pilfered from Mam’s not-so-secret stash when her phone buzzed. It was Trixie’s number, but the message was not from her sister.

> _Hi Delia, can you please come and collect Trixie? She’s had a bit too much to drink and I’m not comfortable sending her home by herself._

The message, signed by Jenny, included an address in a rather more salubrious area of London than Delia was accustomed to frequenting. But it was at least residential when she checked it on her GPS, so Trixie wasn’t disgracing herself in some high end nightclub.

Eyeing herself in the downstairs bathroom mirror, Delia debated whether she should change out of her sweatpants, trainers and hoodie. A shrug, and she slipped out of the front door, leaving a note for her parents. Headed for the tube station.

It was an awkward time to be out on a Saturday. The wait for an uber was significant, and for a cab out of the question. She made the train by a few seconds, but the next connecting service was going to leave her waiting on the platform for twenty minutes. She could easily get there on foot in less time. Grateful for her decision not to change, she climbed up the stairs out of the station and was ringing the doorbell not longer after, only slightly winded from the run.

Had mostly stopped panting by the time the door opened, but she was conscious of the sweat beading on her forehead. Oh well.

Jenny appeared in the doorway, goggled at Delia like she was some sort of insane apparition.

“Did you *run* here?”

“Only from the tube station. It was going to take too long to wait for an Uber.”

“You couldn’t drive?”

“Mam and Da took the car.”

The brunette stared, barely veiled distaste all too evident on her features.

“Well, you’d best come in. I at least got her into the guest room earlier.”

Delia followed Jenny into the house, tried not to gawk like a tourist at the gleaming timber and marble and the aura of wealth that permeated the space. They ascended a wide staircase, and the nurse was careful not to touch the bannister. She didn’t want to leave smudged fingerprints on the highly polished surface. At the head of the stairs they passed an open doorway, lit by the comforting flicker of an open fire. Delia heard a murmur of familiar voices from within, glad that the angle of the door prevented her from spotting the occupants - or rather prevented them from seeing her. She’d recognise those sharply defined vowel sounds anywhere, and honestly she didn’t need to run into Dr Mount on top of everything else this evening.

Trixie was face down on one of the most enormous beds Delia had ever seen. Undoubtedly smearing makeup onto a stupidly expensive coverlet. The nurse sat down beside her sister, grasped her shoulder and rolled the blonde onto her side.

“Trixie! Trixie, it’s time to go home.”

“Deels…” Blue eyes struggled to focus, cloudy and bloodshot. “Where did you come from?” Slurred, with more than a hint of their Pembrokeshire roots.

“Come on Trix. I need you to get up and come with me. We’ve got to get you home, alright?”

“Alright.” Trixie smiled, beatific. Raised her upper body about six inches off the bed before slumping back again. Eyes closed and muscles absolutely relaxed.

“Fuck.”

“Is there a problem?” Jenny’s clipped tone sounded harsh from the doorway.

“She’s passed out. I can’t lift her on my own. Is it alright if I just stay here for a little while and see if I can rouse her again in a bit?”

“I don’t suppose there’s much choice really.” The brunette stalked out the room, displeasure radiating from every pore of body.

“Well, fuck you too.” Delia wasn’t quite brave enough to yell that out the door after Jenny. Whispered it vehemently instead.

She sat on the other side of the bed, bouncing up and down to test for quality. Of course it was ridiculously comfortable. She wondered, momentarily, whether they could get away with staying overnight so she could sleep on it, but the thought of having to deal with Jenny in the morning was enough to make her shudder. Was about to get up and explore the room when a blonde head poked around the door frame.

“Hello!”

“Hi Chris.”

“I can see Trixie is somewhat…”

“Paralytic?”

“I was going to say indisposed, but…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get her out of your hair as soon as I can rouse her.”

“No need to apologise Delia. It looks like she might be out for some time to come. Would you like to come and have a cup of tea while you wait?”

“I don’t want to intrude. It seems like you have company.”

“Nonsense, it’s only Patsy. Please join us. I’ve got some rather delicious chocolate biscuits that are begging to be eaten.”

She was tossing up the indignity of spending any further time with Jenny and Dr Mount over the promise of a hot drink when her stomach grumbled audibly.

“That settles it then. Come on, let’s get you something to eat.” He stepped back slightly, gesturing for Delia to precede him out of the door.

A sigh, and the nurse accompanied him. It would be rude to refuse now, and she’d rather not burn any more bridges than Trixie already had this evening. They walked downstairs and into the kitchen, Chris fumbling for the light switch.

“Sorry, the housekeeper has left for the day. We’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

Housekeeper? Honestly, how much money did these people have?

They’d found the tea supplies, and were exploring the pantry for treats when a dry laugh sounded from the kitchen door. Delia froze, one incriminating hand thrust deep inside a biscuit tin. Peeked from the corner of her eye to confirm her fear - Dr Mount was watching them. The redhead looked unexpectedly relaxed, in worn blue jeans and a plaid button down shirt, hair pulled up into a messy bun. It was so surprising Delia found herself staring, her eyes tracing the lines of long legs and other pleasant curves, only halting her inspection when blue met blue and Delia was sure her sudden embarrassed flush could heat the water for their tea. Her only consolation the fact that the redhead had swiftly looked away and was now studiously avoiding her gaze.

Completely oblivious, Chris prattled on about his tea preparations, asked Patsy to assist in laying out a tea tray.

 

* * *

 

They carried the tray and biscuits back upstairs, and Delia trailed the two doctors into the fire lit room she’d passed earlier. It was a wonderfully cosy sitting room, with squashy looking sofas and warm burgundy tones and a sheepskin rug in front of the fire place. Jenny was curled up in an armchair, glued to her phone. Barely acknowledged Delia’s presence, but the nurse noticed she looked up any time Dr Mount spoke. Which wasn’t very often.

Chris carried on most of the conversation, flitting about and making sure everyone had tea to their liking. Delia settled happily on the rug, letting the relaxing warmth of the fire counteract the tension of being trapped in this situation. She chatted with him about the hospital and her work in the clinic, painfully aware of the judgemental presence of the other surgeon. Found herself revealing, under Chris’s gentle interrogation, her fitness schedule and preferred gym, her favourite books and the story of how the Busby family had moved away from Wales.

“I don't know how you do it, fitting all that into your life. Honestly, I think all the nurses I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with have been so accomplished. Working those long shifts every day, and then still finding time to read and study and stay healthy. I really do admire you.”

“I don’t think I’ve met more than a handful of nurses who do manage to do all that Chris. You’re far too generous.” Dr Mount’s face was hidden in the shadow of the armchair she had selected, but her voice was more contemplative than critical.

“Not to mention that in order to be a *good* nurse you need to have a certain something in your manner and demeanour, your posture and breeding. An ability to follow instructions but also predict the needs of those around you.” Determined not to be left out Jenny chimed in. Her body angled towards Dr Mount’s.

Delia wondered if Jenny was conscious of her body language. She was almost certain that Dr Mount was oblivious.

“On top of that there is one trait that is essential. The capacity to think critically.”

Delia could not keep the incredulous smile from her face. “I am now no longer offended by you saying that you’ve only met five good nurses. Given your criteria I am now more surprised that you’ve even known one.”

The redhead sat forward, sharp cheekbones highlighted in the flickering light. Blue eyes surveying her inquisitively. For once not breaking or avoiding eye contact.

“You are very severe upon our profession!” Affronted.

Delia shrugged. “I must speak as I find. Don’t get me wrong Jenny, I’m not saying there are no good nurses. I’ve worked with so many. I just think that your standards for what constitutes a *good* nurse are…” A pause. “Outlandishly high.” Delia took a breath, debating whether to continue. “Besides, you’ve omitted the one thing that that makes a truly good nurse.”

“And what’s that?”

“Empathy and care. You can be the most technically proficient nurse in the world, but if you don’t genuinely care about the wellbeing of your patients you might as well stay home.”

Jenny simply gaped at her. Delia was more interested in Dr Mount’s reaction. The redhead actually smirked, the devilish expression making blue blue eyes twinkle before they subsided into shadow again as the surgeon sat back.

Delia excused herself to go and check on Trixie, aware of the vitriol that erupted from the other nurse as soon as she left the room. She laughed to herself, wondering if maybe that had been a bit too pointed.

Trixie was very much still unconscious, her limbs loose and heavy. The blonde didn’t so much as stir when Delia grabbed her by the ear, or even when she pinched the soft flesh behind Trixie’s upper arm hard enough to bruise.

“Oh Trix. What am I going to do with you?”

Before she even had a chance to ask, Chris offered the guest room for them both to stay for the night. Although she did not relish the idea of dealing with Jenny first thing in the morning, Delia wasn’t comfortable abandoning Trixie. Hopefully the blonde would rouse early enough that they could simply duck out before anyone else was awake.

He insisted that she have one last cup of tea before going to bed. The only thing that kept her from refusing was the fact that Jenny had retired in her absence, the atmosphere in the sitting room significantly less tense. Despite the continued presence of Dr Mount.

Her tea was almost done before the redhead spoke again.

“I noticed that your sister has a Welsh accent only when inebriated, and yet you still retain yours. How did that happen?” Her tone was curious, lacking the judgemental edge that Delia had come to expect.

“Sheer force of will on Trixie’s part. She wanted a more cosmopolitan accent.” Delia made air quotes around the work cosmopolitan, let out a long sigh. “We were young enough that it was possible for her to do that. Mam and Da still sound like they stepped off the beach at Tenby. But our younger sister Freddie sort of lost hers naturally.”

“Is that where you’re from? Tenby?”

“Not far from there. Pembrokeshire. The arse end of Wales.”

If the surgeon’s laugh made Delia’s heart skip just a tiny bit, she wasn’t about to admit it. She was still a stuck up, arrogant bitch. Even if she was one of the most attractive women Delia had ever laid eyes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, I really do appreciate it. Writing is feeling hard and CtM is feeling sad but you guys make it all seem that bit brighter.


	6. Commendable efficiency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia works with Dr Mount in the operating theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to go ahead and disclaim right now that my medical proficiency comes from decades of tv shows and has no basis in the reality of the operating room. Allow me a little authorial discretion and just go with it.

It was only with the utmost reluctance that Delia replaced her teal scrubs with violet. Carefully folded the trousers and tunic shirt and placed them in her locker, stroking the wear softened fabric one last time.

The teal symbolised the clinic and the completion of her nurse practitioner studies and the respect that she was shown. Shrugging on the violet scrubs of a theatre nurse brought its own prestige, but it wasn’t what Delia had worked towards. It felt very much like a step backwards.

She had little choice, however. She’d been summoned into the Dean’s office, and the Dean herself had requested the temporary transfer to theatre. It was couched as an option, but Delia was smart enough to understand the way the hospital worked. The way any bureaucracy worked. Unless you toed the line opportunities seemed to dry up.

And it wasn’t all bad. The Dean had sweetened the deal with a substantial bonus, and it was only three weeks. She couldn’t really begrudge someone their honeymoon.

Curious that they’d asked her though, when there were hundreds of nurses who’d be desperate for the chance to work a solid roster for three weeks. The Dean had been cagey when Delia had asked about it. Merely said that they wanted someone competent and professional and Delia had been their priority.

That was more than a little flattering.

Staring into the locker room mirror, Delia straightened her bun. Tucked down a few wisps of dark hair that had come loose on the tube ride. It was probably the biggest inconvenience of theatre, having to contain her hair. She was so used to just pulling it back into a ponytail for clinic that she’d gotten quite out of practice. Had to wrestle for precious minutes to coerce her hair into behaving, and so she’d missed her second cup of coffee.

It was an inauspicious start to her secondment.

Delia reported to the Head Nurse precisely two minutes to her shift commencing. The woman was brutally efficient, running the nursing staff much like a military command. She tolerated neither tardiness nor excessive earliness, and she gave Delia an approving nod as she glanced at the clock.

“Ah, good morning Nurse Busby. I see you’ve been assigned to theatre. Lucky you, you get to work in one of the brand new theatres today. You’ll be in OR-E1 and E2.”

“Yes ma’am.” She avoided the compunction to salute, instead turned sharply on her heel and marched towards the newly opened East Wing.

What were the odds she’d get placed into a surgery with Dr Mount?

 

* * *

 

 

The odds were fairly high, as it turned out. She was setting up the theatre space for the second surgery of the day when Dr Mount strode into the room, holding a sterile mask over her face. Blue eyes travelled the room, skipping over the nurse as if she didn’t exist. A brusque nod.

“Please ensure that the instruments are set up in standard formation. They must not touch each other.”

“Yes Doctor.”

There had been an odd catch in Dr Mount’s voice, a peculiar emphasis. Delia was always very thorough with the instruments, but that insistent tone made her pay attention to the spacing on the tray. Adjusted one or two of the silver tools until they were equidistant from each other.

The patient was wheeled in soon after, and Delia worked with the anaesthetist to get the woman comfortable and settled. Almost the second the anaesthetic took effect Dr Mount once again strode into the room, gloves already in place and red hair hidden beneath a plain blue scrub cap.

“Is everything in order?”

The anaesthetist was clearly accustomed to Dr Mount’s abrupt manner. She checked the monitors and gave a crisp nod. “Affirmative.”

“We shall proceed then.”

The doctor stepped closer to the operating table, gesturing for the patient’s chart to be brought to her. Blue eyes scanned the document intently, before surveying the set up before her.

“Nurse, prepare the field please, upper chest exposed. And once you’re done please assist me in counting in the instruments.”

“Yes Doctor.”

Delia quickly prepared the coverings for the patient’s body, laying them in precise formations around the requested area. Stepped up to the instrument tray, and began to list the instruments in a clear, quiet voice. Aware of Dr Mount’s concentrated gaze.

“Thank you Nurse. Once more please.”

Startled, Delia looked up. The redhead did not meet her gaze, instead focused on the silver tools between them. The anaesthetist caught Delia’s eye, nodded encouragement. So Delia counted the instruments in again, and once more when prompted by the Doctor.

Finally satisfied, Dr Mount stepped up to the table and began.

Delia had assisted in hundreds of surgeries, but none had been as fascinatingly precise as the one she now observed. The tools that Dr Mount requested, in a voice completely devoid of inflection or emotion, seemed to become nothing so much as an extension of the redhead’s hands. She made incisions with a near inhuman exactitude, the edges clean and neat. The procedure, a breast reduction, was over quickly. The pace had kept Delia on her toes, glued to the scene in front of her in an effort to preempt the doctor’s requests.

Time had seemingly flown by, and Dr Mount was requesting suturing equipment before Delia had even a moment to feel uncomfortable about her close proximity to the statuesque surgeon.

“Music please.”

Somewhere behind her Delia heard speakers come to life, the sound of an orchestra filling the space.

And then she couldn’t look away.

It was like the surgeon’s hands were dancing. They flowed, graceful and elegant, keeping perfect time with the music, leaving behind a trail of the smallest, most evenly placed stitches that Delia had ever seen. There was no hesitation, no tremor. Dr Mount was meticulous and methodical and calling for the scissors to cut off the suture thread. Mesmerised, Delia had to give herself a stern mental shake. Swabbed the wound areas with antiseptic as Dr Mount stepped back and stretched.

“Thank you team.”

There was an answering murmur of acknowledgement, barely audible.

“Now Nurse, count the instruments out please.”

So Delia did. Once, twice, and again at the doctor’s quiet request.

It was only when the last shiny silver tool had been named and counted for the third time that the surgeon relaxed.

“Thank you Nurse Busby. I commend your efficiency.”

Blue eyes met hers for a split second, and then the redhead was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

That day she worked once more with Dr Mount and once with Chris (and it hadn’t been as hard as she feared to remember to call him Dr Dockerill), as well as with one of the other plastic surgeons.

All three of them worked in OR-E2, but it was like three different theatres. Chris’s OR was full of chatter and music and felt friendly and relaxed. The other doctor had residents with her and the OR had felt like a school, full of earnest questions and the fearful inexperience of fledgling surgeons. Dr Mount’s OR had been silent and compelling in its focus.

As she walked out of the hospital that evening, Delia reflected that it was going to be an interesting three weeks if nothing else, with the chance to experience a bit of variety.

She was less sure by the end of the first week. More and more often she was being placed into Dr Mount’s surgeries. Delia was on first name basis with the anaesthetist (in fact they were catching up for a drink on Friday evening) but Dr Mount had barely spoken to her above a handful of times, not counting her quiet, unambiguous instructions.

As Delia grew familiar with the surgeon’s style and routines even the instructions grew less frequent. The redhead would simply hold out a gloved hand and Delia would place the correct instrument carefully in her grasp. Only twice had she misjudged what tool the surgeon needed, had been corrected in a calm monotone.

She found, by Friday afternoon, that working in such silence didn’t agree with her at all. She relished the thought of drinks later that afternoon, of the meaningless buzz of a hundred conversations going on around her.

Delia was in the middle of cleaning up the OR after her last surgery of the day when a throat cleared behind her. Startled, she spun around.

Dr Mount stood in the centre of the room, awkward and uncomfortable. Blue eyes looked past Delia’s left ear, and the surgeon smiled. Stiff.

“I just wanted to say thank you, Nurse Busby. Your work this week has been exemplary, and I should be happy to recommend you as an ongoing member of the theatre team should you wish it.”

She gawked up at the taller woman for a long moment before collecting herself.

“Thank you Dr Mount. I appreciate your feedback.” A pause. “I don’t think I’m well suited to spending long stretches in the operating room though. I like the pace and variety and the noise of the clinic to be honest.”

The taller woman swallowed, and blinked hard. Eyes glanced off Delia’s before skating away again. Cleared her throat once, and again.

“That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the opportunity.” Rushed. “It’s good to keep my skills up, and it’s been fascinating watching you work. It’s just that… I need a little more interaction when I work.”

The doctor cleared her throat again. “I’m too quiet for you.” Like a dawning realisation.

“It’s not that, exactly. It’s not you, Dr Mount, it’s that…”

“Delia!” The anaesthetist chose that moment to poke her head around the operating room door, her rainbow scrub cap still in place. Brown eyes twinkling. “Are you coming? There’s a pint of cider calling my name.”

“I’ll be there in a minute Lucille.”

When Delia turned back to the redhead her face was shuttered. Blue eyes cooled to an icy grey.

“I won’t keep you any longer Nurse Busby. Have a pleasant evening.” Her voice as cold and precise as the scalpel she wielded with such immense skill.

Delia watched her walk away, a sudden churning turmoil in her belly. She processed the unpleasant sensation for a moment, wondering what it meant and why she kept letting this woman get to her.

Shrugged and followed Lucille out the door.


End file.
